


Crown of Flowers

by DyslexicSquirrel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Barebacking, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Geralt’s mysterious origins, He’s also a bit feral, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vague Time Period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyslexicSquirrel/pseuds/DyslexicSquirrel
Summary: Julian actually thought he might be taller than his husband—hard to tell when the only time they had ever met, Jaskier was kneeling at his feet during the ceremony, veiled from the top of his head, down to his feet, before being whisked away to his lord and husband’s rooms to await him, not to the feast being held downstairs to celebrate his union—and… it shouldn’t be funny, but it was in a way.The mighty Northern king (did they call them kings here? He honestly wasn’t sure, but should most likely find out), the White Wolf (the meaning for that nickname had been apparent even with what little he could see through his veils), conqueror of the Four Realms, alpha to end all alphas—-with an omega mate who was taller than him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 113
Kudos: 2171
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, Geraskier Kink Bingo, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fill for Geraskier Kink Bingo
> 
> Square: ABO Dynamics
> 
> This is just an excuse to write some fluff and an arranged marriage lol

“Stop fidgeting, Julian,” his mother admonished and he stilled his hands in his lap, staring at the ring encircling a finger crossed on his left hand. It had been a concession to the customs of his people as the Northerners didn’t exchange rings. If he stared at the ring, he didn’t need to stare at his reflection in the mirror as his mother wove flowers into his hair. They symbolized his literal deflowering and a hysterical laugh tried to claw its way out of his throat. 

The servants were supposed to help him prepare for his wedding night, and had for the most part—bathing, perfuming, draping the shift that was so sheer Julian wondered why anyone bothered, but perhaps the point was that he appeared almost naked but wasn’t. The servants should have done this part, too, but for some unfathomable reason, she insisted on doing it herself. 

Julian would have preferred the servants. His mother had always made him nervous. He wasn’t the son she had wanted, not the alpha heir she was supposed to supply his father with. Even a beta would have done in a pinch. Instead they got him—omega and a boy to boot. In some circles, male omegas were still considered a status symbol, but only if they were small and waif like. He was neither of those things—tall where he should be petite, leanly muscled where he should be slim. Not even most female alpha’s wanted an omega who appeared to not need their protection. 

“He looks like he could have been an alpha. Too tall. And hairy, good God,” his father regularly lamented, usually while so deep in his cups it was hard to understand his words, but Julian always nderatoof the  _ meaning.  _ His lips, so much like his own, would curl up in a sneer. “More's the pity.” 

And his mother… well. She took out the frustration and disappointment and shame for her inability to produce the child that had been expected of her by withholding affection from the only child she had.

Julian actually thought he might be taller than his husband—hard to tell when the only time they had ever met, Jaskier was kneeling at his feet during the ceremony, veiled from the top of his head, down to his feet, before being whisked away to his lord and husband’s rooms to await him, not to the feast being held downstairs to celebrate his union—and… it shouldn’t be funny, but it was in a way. 

The mighty Northern king (did they call them kings here? He honestly wasn’t sure, but should most likely find out), the White Wolf (the meaning for  _ that _ nickname had been apparent even with what little he could see through his veils), conqueror of the Four Realms, alpha to end all alphas—-with an omega mate who was taller than him. 

A snort slipped out and his mother pinched his ear. He finally lifted his gaze, pointedly looking at his mother’s reflection and not his own, though he caught glimpses nonetheless. “Ow.”

“Don’t be a child,” she admonished, stabbing one of the pins into his hair with more force than necessary, ignoring his wince. “You are to be the consort to a king. Consorts should not make sounds better suited to horses.” 

_ I’m going to be a broodmare, so what’s the difference?  _ Julian thought, but didn’t say. It was lucky for his parents that his husband had a preference for male omegas and they just happened to have one lying about when it was heard that the White Wolf’s army was on its way. The kingdoms of the West and South had refused negotiation, the rumors proclaimed. So when the Wolf’s representative arrived at the gates ahead of the army, he was admitted. “We surrender and pledge our allegiance to your lord,” he imagined his father saying, obsequious from his seat upon his throne, “and take our son as a sign of good faith.” 

Julian hadn’t been there, of course. His father tossed his only child at the feet of their enemy and he couldn’t even be upset about it (much). It kept their people safe. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make to avoid war. 

He sighed and let his hands once again fill his vision, ignoring the tugs on his hair as his mother twisted and braided the long strands. A flower petal, pale pink and white at the bottom, drifted down to lay against his silk covered lap. He blinked at it for a long moment before his attention was caught by his wedding band. The ring was heavier than he would have expected, solid silver, embossed with vines, the engraving circling his finger. He wondered if there was some symbolism involved.

“There. I guess that will have to do.” His mother arranged some of the heavy, dark strands which were left hanging over his shoulders. The silk shifted against his skin with the movement and he shivered. 

Steeling himself, Julian looked up. He didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. Not the wide blue eyes or the intricate style of his hair or the pink of his skin, scrubbed clean by too many rough hands, or the delicate garment he wore, white and tied with ribbons, like a present. Wrapped up like a gift for his new husband. He let out a shuddering breath. 

He always knew this day would come—there was no other outcome for a highborn omega. He had hoped he would at least know the alpha he was to marry first, even a little. He knew nothing of his husband but what he heard whispered in court and those whispered did nothing to allay his fears that he would be treated well. 

The Northern king hadn’t  _ looked  _ terribly brutish, though he seemed to favor leather and metal over silk or brocade. His coloring was odd, white hair and cat colored eyes, but there were rumors he was fae. His hair had looked soft, falling in waves about his broad shoulders. His hands had been gentle when they accepted Julian’s from between the folds of his veils to place the ring upon it. Large, dwarfing his own, with long, thick fingers. They bore calluses, rough against Julian’s smooth skin, rasping against his knuckles when the king stroked across them before relinquishing his hold. 

His voice was deep and he spoke with surety when he accepted Julian as his mate and consort. Julian envied him that. What must it feel like? he wondered. 

He was pulled from his musings when his mother gripped his chin, wrenching his head around so fast she almost upset a few of the flowers she had spent hours weaving and pinning into his hair. 

“You know what is expected of you,” she asked, but he knew from experience she did not expect an answer. “Do your duty and do not bring shame to our family.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

She held his gaze, eyes narrowed, until she came to some conclusion and released his chin. She took his hand and led him to the bed, a monstrosity of a thing with dark blue bed hangings and wolves carved into the posts. 

“It is easier if you do not fight,” she was saying and she helped him into the mattress, feather down it felt like, soft as a cloud beneath his knees, and he froze, looking at her over his shoulder. She prodded him back into motion, tutting. Once he was kneeling in the middle of the bed, she took up the task of arranging his silk shift, talking all the while. “Let him do what he will, whelp you, and, God willing, you will bear well and never have to suffer your husband’s attentions again.” 

He wondered if his mother spoke from experience and felt a stab of sympathy for this woman. His mother primped until she was satisfied and glanced at the sun out the window. It was almost completely set. “He will be here soon,” she said softly, turning to look upon him again. “Goodbye, Julian.” 

He almost asked her to stay, stay with him until she couldn’t anymore, but he bit his tongue. It wouldn’t change anything. She couldn’t change things anymore than he could, even if she wanted to. 

Julian settled back on his heels, trying to calm his galloping heart. There was still a chance his husband would treat him well. Rumors weren’t always true, after all. And worst came to worst, there was his mother’s advice. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Inform them I am not to be disturbed.” Geralt scanned another piece of correspondence, this one detailing the progress in the West. The kingdom was a mess, the former monarchy having ignored their people for years, hoarding not only the gold, but taxing their subjects almost to starvation while the nobles feasted on their labors. Eskel was having a hell of a time fixing the problems, but Geralt was confident. He tossed the parchment aside and rubbed his face with both hands, collapsing in a sprawl in his chair. 

“The council won’t be pleased,” Vesemir offered from his seat across the large desk, face scrunched as in distaste. Geralt Underwood the feeling; he wasn’t the council’s biggest fan himself. 

“The boy was shaking,” he told the older man, as if Vesemir hadn’t been there to witness how the omega—his, he  _ his _ now—had quaked beside him. He had tried to hide it, Geralt noticed, but tremors wracked his body nonetheless. 

“I know,” Vesemir replied in sympathy, the lines around his eyes deepening. 

“It’s bad enough,” he paused, teeth clenched, “that his whoreson of a father threw him at me like chattel. I will not have him even more terrified on his wedding night and made a spectacle of.” 

It was tradition for the wedding night to be witnessed by at least one member of the council, in order to assure the omega was in fact untouched and the line of succession remained pure.

“They may take issue,” Vesemir started, but Geralt cut him off. 

“Fuck the council,” he snarled, fist slamming down a top his desk hard enough to make the wood groan. Vesemir raises a brow, unimpressed with his theatrics. Fuck. He sat back again, tired beyond his years. “They will have to settle for my assurance on the matter. As their king.” 

He said the last bitingly, since the council liked to remind him that he was king whenever he did not act the way they wanted. It was biting them in the ass now, wasn’t it? 

The council had been put in place by his father, a man Geralt had never met, as he died in the Great War when he was still in his mother’s belly, but the advising body, made up of elders from the noble houses, was another tradition Geralt wished he could do away with, but too much change too soon would spell disaster. He wouldn’t put his people at risk of having to suffer through an overthrow—it was them who would take the brunt of it. 

The council had gotten too comfortable ruling in his stead until he was old enough to take the crown. They wanted power and Geralt made them nervous. Rightfully so. One day, when things were more settled. He sighed. 

For now, he kept up appearances, went to council meetings, instead relying on the guidance of those he kept closest. Not that he always took their advice. Yennefer had said this marriage was a horrible idea, but there was a feeling he couldn’t shake after spotting the omega through a spyglass after the offer had been made, lounging on a balcony, long hair blowing in the breeze coming in from the sea, strumming a lute, unaware of the fact that his father was deciding his entire future three floors below him. 

The day had dawned hot, unbearable to someone accustomed to life in the northern mountains, and the omega was dressed in a manner that would have been scandalous if he’d know anyone could see him. Geralt himself had spotted him by accident, trying to ascertain the castle’s fortifications, and hadn’t been able to look away. Legs and upper thighs bared by the short chemise, ties at the throat left undone, exposing an expanse of throat and swath of chest. He would not be considered beautiful here, Geralt knew, in a place that did not value strength in one’s mates. 

More fool they, he remembered thinking. Geralt knew nothing of the boy then—man, he corrected now, he might be young but he was grown—though he saw the strength in him clearly and it was that, even more than his beauty, that he coveted. He accepted Pankratz’s terms of surrender because that’s what they were even if the alpha didn’t realize it yet, despite Yennefer’s misgivings.

He wound up with an omega who stank of apprehension and fear under heavy perfume, and had no one to blame but himself. He should have insisted on a meeting prior to the ceremony, but it was too late now. They had been bound by the omega’s cycle, at any rate. He would just need to not fuck up anymore and not having an old goat sitting in the room when he was bonded would be a start. 

“I’ll let them know.” Vesemir dipped his head. “But it would not be you who suffered from talk should there be any.” 

Geralt knew that first hand. There had been speculation his entire life concerning his birth. His mother, taken as spoils of war and wedded after the fact, had been on the receiving end of gossip, keeping Geralt shielded from much of it before her death. But he had still heard the whispers, wondering if Visenna had been with child before the king claimed her. 

“Anyone who speaks against him will find themselves without a tongue.” 

Vesemir stood to leave. “Even you cannot be everywhere, boy.” 

No, but he could fucking try. 


	2. Chapter 2

Julian didn’t know when he had drifted off, but he must have fallen asleep because he was blinking open heavy eyes when he heard the door click shut. The servants with supper, he assumed, from the darkness creeping in against the fire in the hearth. His bed felt exceptionally nice and he stretched, luxuriating in the sheets sliding against his skin. The beginnings of a smile froze on his lips when his hands brushed the flowers in his hair. 

The fog fled his mind in an instant and he pushed upright, the movement upsetting the ribbons on his left shoulder, the bow slipping over the curve and down his arm. He reached for it, to drag it back up, and stilled when his eyes landed on the figure standing by the door, the shock of white hair gilded by the fire. 

His husband. His alpha. Come to collect his rights. And Julian had ruined all of his mother’s careful preparations. He could feel petals that had fallen free, crushed, brushing his fingers where they rested against the bed. He must look a mess. But all the alpha did was ask, voice deep and shocking in the quiet room, “Are you cold?” 

He shook his head, wincing when more petals rained down. He pulled the strap of his shift up, but it wouldn’t stay, and he ended up awkwardly holding it in place, unsure of where to look. He settled for a spot in the wall. The stone work of the keep really was quite extraordinary, he thought out of no where. 

His husband seemed different out of the full regalia of their wedding ceremony, stripped down to breeches and shirt, the ties at the throat undone, sleeves rolled, but he was no less intimidating. His amber eyes glowed in the firelight, the same light that outlined all the hard planes and ridges of his body that fabric could not disguise. 

Julian hadn’t been looking at the alpha on purpose, but he caught movement from the corner of his eye and jerked before he could stop it. You’re not a rabbit; don’t act like one, he silently admonished himself. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, except his husband wasn’t approaching the bed, but settling into a chair by the fire. He began tugging off his boots and Julian wondered if he was supposed to help. But his husband got them off with alacrity, followed by his stockings, and simply stared at Julian with quiet intensity. 

He fidgeted, couldn’t help it, but just for a moment, biting his lip, and finally  _ looking _ at the man he belonged to. The alpha was… handsome, there was no denying that. Julian supposed he was lucky in that regard. He shifted, tucking his knees under him, one hand still clutching the wayward ribbon. Those cat eyes stayed trained on his face, but the way they seemed to study him made him feel more naked than if he were wearing nothing at all. 

The alpha blinked, breaking the spell, and sighed, pushing to his feet. Julian felt his back tense, but forced himself to stay where he was. He expected… to be ravished.  _ It’s easier if you don’t fight.  _ That’s what his mother had said, but his husband didn’t seem intent on ravishing. He stood close enough to touch, but didn’t.

“May I?” Julian’s brow furrowed. The alpha’s lips tugged down. Voice gruff, seeming unsure, he gestured to where Julian sat, he asked,“May I sit?” 

“It’s your bed,” Julian blurted. It was disrespectful, but the alpha didn’t seem to care. Something that was almost a smile passed over his face, fleeting and half formed, but Julian wondered what the alpha would look like when he grinned— _ if _ he grinned. 

“And yours,” his husband offered. 

Julian’s eyes widened. He hadn’t given a thought to where he would sleep. It was uncommon. His parents had separate rooms. He wasn’t aware of anyone of noble or royal lineage who shared a bed with their mate when they weren’t… sharing a bed… for not sleeping. 

Uncertainty flitted through the alpha’s eyes, masked when his expression went blank. “If you want. I can have another room prepared for you.” 

“No,” Julian said in a rush, boldly reaching out to take his husband’s hand, the first they had touched since their wedding. The ribbon slid down over his shoulder now that he wasn’t holding it and the alpha’s eyes followed the movement like a caress before meeting his wide blue eyes. “It—it’s fine. Whatever you wish, your Majesty.” 

“Geralt,” his husband said softly. 

“What?” 

“Call me Geralt.” He sighed, looking as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders like the ancient Atlas. “At least here. I’m no king here.” 

“Who are you,” Julian rasped, feeling as though the answer were the most important thing in the world. 

The alpha— _ Geralt _ —reached out with his free hand slowly, giving Julian enough time to move away. When he didn’t, Geralt’s hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into the contact, peeking up at Geralt through his lashes. “Just a man,” Geralt finally said, “Your husband. Your mate.” 

Julian’s heart skipped a beat. Geralt plucked one of the flowers circling his head and his breath hitched. “I would give you more time, Julian” he murmured, rolling the stem between his fingers, the significance of the flower between his fingers making his meaning clear. He looked up. “It would make things more difficult for you, the Northern court is not kind to things that are… different. But if you want…” 

The way Geralt spoke of ‘things that are different’ made Jaskier think, perhaps, the alpha spoke from experience. Speculation surrounding his birth had followed the alpha all his life and reached all the realms, some nicer than others, but all of them cruel. And still,  _ still _ , he was giving Julian a choice. A choice that wasn’t really much of choice was still more than he had ever had. 

He took a chance, deciding to place his trust in his husband's hands and hope it wasn’t misplaced. Geralt was ceding power when he didn’t have to. “I’d prefer,” he said haltingly, trying to hold Geralt’s gaze, “if you called me Jaskier.” His eyes dropped, a blush warming his cheeks. “At least, in our bed.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, rolling the name around on his tongue, hair sliding over his shoulder when his head tilted. “What does it mean?”

He kept his eyes on his lap, plucking at the silk of his shift. His other hand, he noticed, was still clutching the alpha’s. “You’ll laugh.” 

“Maybe.” Geralt tipped his chin up with a knuckle. He was smiling, a soft thing that did strange things to Julian’s belly. “Tell me anyway.” 

He shouldn’t have said anything, really. It was a dumb nickname he’d given himself, one his parents refused to use. Some of the servants had, the ones who had known him since he was a boy and had raised him. “Buttercup,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Geralt asked, an amused huff ruffling the hair near his right ear. When had he gotten that close? He noticed the darker gold surrounding Geralt’s widened pupils. 

“Buttercup,” he pouted. “Like the flower.” 

Now Geralt  _ did  _ laugh, a low chuckle, leaning closer to run his nose along Julian’s cheek. “It suits you.” 

His husband sounded entirely too pleased. He grumbled, “How would you know?” 

“Hmm. Just a feeling.” Lips pressed against his cheek and he sucked in a breath. “Have you ever been kissed before?” 

“What?” Julian jerked back, almost rumbling back against the sheets. He would have if Geralt hadn’t gripped his bicep. What had he  _ heard _ ? No one had known he was sure of it. 

One white brow climbed Geralt’s forehead. “I won’t be angry if you have, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just curious.” 

Julian forced himself to relax. He saw nothing but earnestness in Geralt’s expression, but still licked his lips nervously, eyes on a loose thread on Geralt’s shoulder. “Once,” he looked up and away, quickly, “when an ambassador from the East visited. He brought his son…”

“Mhmm?” Geralt prompted when he trailed off, distracted by the feel of Geralt scenting him, nose against the delicate skin of his neck. 

“We danced and he escorted me out to the garden.” He raised his chin, giving Geralt more access, shivering at the kiss his husband pressed to the underside of his chin. His hand, so large and strong, still circled his upper arm, thumb stroking. “He pulled me into the folly and kissed me.” 

He felt Geralt go still and slowly pull back until their eyes met. “Did he?” Julian nodded, uneasy at the change in his husband’s demeanor. “Did he ask?” 

“No,” he stuttered.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed. “What was his name?” he asked idly, letting go of Julian’s arm to run his back soothingly. He could feel the calluses on Geralt’s fingers catching on his silk shift. 

“Valdo.” 

“Marx’s boy. I know of him,” Geralt said, looking at a point over Julian’s shoulder, eyes narrowed in thought. Geralt’s cut back to him. “Did you enjoy it?” 

He shrugged, unsure of how to answer. The kissing itself had been enjoyable, but Valdo had been unkind afterwards, saying things he didn’t want to think about. Instead he asked a question of his own. “Would you kiss me?” 

Geralt didn’t answer with words. He pulled the hand Julian still held in his own free and slid it into his hair, cradled the back of his head. Petals rained around them as Geralt claimed his lips. His husband wasn’t shy about it, tongue sweeping past his lips when he gasped. 

Geralt was everywhere, taking over all his senses, and he went willingly when Geralt lowered him to the bed, the weight of him solid and warm; it made him feel safe. The glow of Geralt’s eyes when he pulled back to look at him made him feel desired. 

He let his eyes flutter shut, pressing his cheek to the sheets when felt one the ribbons at his shoulder being pulled free. He didn’t want his husband to find him lacking. But he needn’t have worried. Geralt undid all of the ties until the silk covering was pooled beneath him and he was bare to the alpha’s gaze. Geralt’s growl was loud in the still of the room, full of a wanting that called to every instinct he had, and he was gathered against Geralt’s chest, clinging to his alpha, pliant in his arms. 

The feel of skin to skin was unexpected and Julian blinked his eyes open and oh,  _ God.  _ Geralt was magnificent. There should be sonnets written about the breath of his chest and the strength of his arms. There was no room for insecurity when an alpha like Geralt was looking at him like  _ that _ , eyes narrowed in intensity, clearly holding himself back, waiting for something. 

Me, he thought, eyes widening. He’s waiting for me to say ‘yes.’ Julian didn’t know how to form the words, cheeks heating at the mere thought, so he kissed his husband because he  _ could _ . And Geralt wanted him to. He could feel it in the way the alpha touched him, the fervor of the way he kissed Julian back. 

“Don’t be scared.” Geralt spoke against his lips, one hand trailing down his side, over his hip, brushing against the quickly hardening length between his legs and the sac beneath before venturing farther down, a blunt digit circling his wet entrance. 

Julian wasn’t scared, he realized, not anymore. Geralt wouldn’t hurt him. Or he would never mean to, he amended, when the tip of Geralt’s finger breached him. The alpha murmured nonsense in his ear, chest rumbling soothingly, slowly opening him up. It was needed, he knew. He could feel Geralt’s cock pressed against his thigh, as big as the rest of him,m. He had asked some of the maids, ones he knew wouldn’t run to his mother, what happened when two people coupled. 

“If you find a good one,” Beth, a blond beta who brought him breakfast and stoked the fire every morning, had whispered conspiratorially, an impish grin curving her wide mouth, “they’ll make sure you’re  _ prepared _ . And they’ll take their time.” 

Geralt was doing both. By the time he added another finger, it had started to feel good. Julian let his head drop back, sure the flowers were a lost cause at this point and hardly cared, hesitantly arching his hips up to meet Geralt’s thrusts, lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasped, thrusting faster at Julian’s hitching movements, circling his rim where he was stretched with another finger, until that was stretching him, too. Face buried in his hair, Geralt did something that had him clenching, a place he didn’t know he had lighting up with pleasure. “Fuck.” 

“Geralt,” he cried when Geralt did it again and again and again. His fingers dug into Geralt’s back, leg twining over Geralt’s hip, and he bit into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder, marking Geralt like the alpha would mark him, muffling the sounds spilling from his mouth along with the slick wetting the sheets and his spend against his abdomen. 

“That’s it. God, you’re beautiful. Being inside you will be better than heaven,” he heard Geralt say. When he could open his eyes, fine tremors still wracking his body, Geralt was looking at him like… like he hung the moon. 

“That’s blasphemous, Geralt,” he said, not really caring, lassitude settling over him, blinking slowly.. He had touched himself before, but it had never been like that. 

“Like I give a fuck. I’d sooner burn in hell than take it back.” Geralt crooked his fingers again and kissed his cheek. He was so full and he thought Geralt had added a third finger when he wasn’t paying attention. “Don’t fall asleep on me now. I have so many more things to show you, if you’ll let me.” 

“Show me everything.”

“Greedy mate,” Geralt chided, but it sounded more like praise, and Julian smiled into their next kiss. He was. Geralt made him feel that way. He let himself be rolled over, head resting on his crossed arms, hips propped up by pillows. It was a vulnerable position, but he felt anything but weak when Geralt groaned as if he were in pain when he spread his cheeks. 

He expected fingers or a cock, but what pressed against his hole was a tongue. He jolted, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. “Geralt, what—” Geralt licked the slick from the inside of his thighs before following the trail back to its source. “Oh, God…”

Geralt growled again, tongue pressing  _ inside _ , and the vibrations added to the sensation suffusing his body. “Please,” he begged. It wasn’t enough. “Geralt, please.” 

“Shh,” Geralt soothed and pressed a kiss to the base of his spine. The alpha blanketed his back, the head of his cock slipping between his cheeks. “Are you alright?” 

He nodded. The only word he could say was, “Please.” 

Geralt went slow, petting his side, sucking bruises into his neck, until their hips were flush. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but Geralt’s cock was thicker than even three of his fingers and he reached back for Geralt’s hip, asking him to wait, but didn’t have to. Geralt wasn’t trying to move, didn’t fight his hold, content with running his nose along the back of his neck, and he had to laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Geralt asked, nipping over his scent gland, not biting yet, and making him shiver. 

“Something my mother said.” He shifted, the breath Geralt sucked in making him smile. “It was stupid and she was wrong. I think I’m okay now.” 

“Are you?” Geralt mused, sounding playful, drawing his hips back before slowly sliding back in, shallow thrusts that gave way to  _ deeper _ and  _ harder _ when Julian started pushing back into them, whimpering moans into the sheets. 

Don’t fight, his mother had said. Why would anyone want to fight this?

He was begging for something he didn’t understand, but Geralt did, changing the angle of his hips, pressing against that place inside that made him see stars, callused fingers wrapping around his cock. He could feel Geralt’s knot swelling and it was instinctive to arch his back, press his chest to the bed, legs spreading. 

The room filled with the sounds of flesh against flesh, his wetness, and Geralt’s growls. He crooned back, walls clenching around the knot, trying to keep it where it belonged. He should when he tipped over the edge he was poised on, knees collapsing, Geralt’s weight pressing him flat as he chased his own end, reduced to a rocking of his hips, trapped in the tight clutch of Julian’s body. 

When Geralt spilled, his teeth sunk into Julian’s shoulder. He groaned weakly, Geralt’s release prolonging his own pleasure. Geralt licked at the mark on his shoulder, clutching him tighter when Julian squirmed on his knot. His husband sighed and settled his weight more firmly atop him. 

“You’re heavy,” Julian grunted, mostly for the principle of it—a little bit because taking too deep of a breath was like wearing a corset. He found he didn’t much mind the feeling otherwise, surrounded so completely by his husband—around and inside him, the fullness of the knot and the warmth filling him—and the almost unconscious circles Geralt was drawing on his ribs. Still...

Geralt grumbled, but rolled them to their sides, one arm around his chest, a hand pressed just above his spent cock, pressing their bodies firmly together so as not to hustle the knot inside him. The care his husband took warmed his heart. It wasn’t Geralt who would be hurt, but Julian, yet Geralt didn’t risk it. 

They settled with one of Geralt’s arms pillowing his head, the other draped over his middle, a blanket pulled from somewhere to drape over their hips. Geralt’s chest rose and fell on a deep breath, the cadence of his breathing evening out. Julian looked over his shoulder. He had to puff the hair out of his face to be able to see Geralt, but the alpha’s eyes were closed. His mouth fell open. 

“Are you  _ falling asleep _ ?” he asked, incredulous. They were firmly locked together, the knot showing no sign of abating, and he could feel the periodic  _ pulse _ of Geralt’s cock, bringing the blush back to his cheeks. 

“No,” Geralt said, but his eyes stayed closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and his body relaxed against the mattress. 

Julian poked his shoulder. “If I don’t get to sleep, you don’t.” 

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Geralt asked with a chuckle. 

He pouted. “Yes.”

“Alright, Jaskier,” his husband rasped, eyes opening slowly, the gold color of them shocking Julian anew. Geralt pressed a kiss to his cheek, chaste and a bit jarring considering their current… position. But it made him smile. 

Maybe marrying a stranger would end up being the best thing that ever happened to him. 


	3. Epilogue

“Jaskier, be careful.” Geralt couldn’t keep the worry from his tone or the frown from his face. His mate waved him off without pausing in his chase of the puppy, the one he convinced Geralt they  _ needed _ , around the courtyard. 

“Wolfhounds are hunting dogs,” he had pointed out a fortnight ago while they lounged in their bed. 

“So?” Jaskier didn’t look up from the book in his lap. 

“You don’t hunt,” he added. 

“I want one. They remind me of you.” He snorted. Jaskier raised his head at that. Carefully he set the book aside, eyes not leaving Geralt’s as he moved to his knees so he could sit astride Geralt’s thighs. “It can keep me warm while you’re gone,” he murmured and Geralt was helpless to refuse his mate anything when he looked at him like that and kissed him so sweetly.

“Alright,” he grumbled later, when they lay wrapped up in each other, waiting out the knot. He coveted moments like this, when Jaskier rested his head on his shoulder and stroked his chest, purring contentedly. Especially when he  _ was  _ away. Jaskier couldn’t travel comfortably now, which meant Geralt went to visit their territories alone now, weeks away from his mate and their bed. 

He didn’t leave his spot on the terrace because he was supposed to be discussing the important matters he had been neglecting, but his eyes tracked his omega. Abruptly, cutting off whatever Vesemir was saying from the other side of the table, he said, “I think he’s happy.” 

“Really?” the older alpha drawled. “What with all the smiling and laughing, I never would have guessed.” 

Geralt leveled him with a flat stare and Vesemir chuckled, the old bastard. “I could have you flogged for that.” 

“You could,” he agreed, unconcerned. It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Geralt trusted his former tutor to speak plainly when he felt the need, to reign Geralt in if necessary. It was the only reason he hadn’t gutted Valdo Marx. Vesemir has made him see sense. He couldn’t murder the man in cold blood for something done to his mate before they’d even met. His hand still itched for his sword, but he knew Vesemir was right. 

“He is, though,” Vesemir said, getting back to the original topic. “Your little flower has blossomed. In more ways than one.” 

Everyone who lived at the keep had taken to referring to his mate as Jaskier, including some of the servants. Julian, the meek, shaking boy who arrived all those months ago, was a thing of the past. In his place was a man sure of his place and position in the world, with Geralt at his back, ready to protect him with everything he had. He looked to where Jaskier with his shorter hair and bright clothing,sat in a patch of grass, the hound happily licking his master’s face, paws resting on the ever growing swell of Jaskier’s belly. He felt his lips curl. 

“Someone looks pleased with themselves.” 

Geralt looked at the older man sideways, not even trying to hide his smugness. “Wouldn’t you be?” 

“Aye.” Vesemir rolled his eyes, letting the missives in his hands fall to the table's surface. He waved Geralt off like he was still a boy trying to avoid his lessons. Geralt  _ felt _ like a boy around Jaskier, able to put down his mantle and just be. “Go. You’re barely listening to anything I’m saying anyway.” 

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice. He stood in one fluid motion and prowled down the stone steps. He had a mate to play with. Everything else could wait. 


End file.
